If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(52)
Cal wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I’m not asking for a commitment if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“No, it’s not that.” James paused, brow furrowing. “I mean, I suppose it is on some level. But, to be honest, all I know about this is what I need, and how to handle it as a transaction. The only . . .” He lowered his gaze for a moment, but then, with what looked like some effort, met Cal’s eyes again. “The only thing I know how to give in return is money.”
“And your submission.”
“Yes. That. But what about when the scene’s over? What happens next?”
Cal reached for James’s hand. “Whatever we want to happen.”
“That’s the part I don’t know how to approach. The way it’s worked with Nick and the others is once it’s over, they’re gone. I’m not . . .” He paused, setting his jaw. Then he met Cal’s eyes again. “I don’t know where the lines are now.”
Cal glanced down at their hands. James hadn’t resisted his grasp, but he hadn’t returned it either. As the pieces fell together, Cal’s heart sank again.
“Do you, uh, do you want me to go?”
James exhaled. “I don’t know what I want right now, Callum.”
Cal slowly withdrew his hand, and James made no effort to stop him. He stood and cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else this evening, sir?”
They both flinched at the title, and for the first time, Cal regretted using it the way he had downstairs.
“No. Thank you.”
Cal didn’t respond. He just turned on his heel, left the bedroom, and closed the door behind him.
Well, there’s your answer, isn’t it? You gave him what he needed, and it doesn’t mean a goddamned thing.
A cold, sick feeling gnawed at him. This was . . . this wasn’t something he could stomach. As a submissive, James laid it all out, surrendering and baring himself in every way, trusting his Dom to push those vulnerable limits and then bring him back, safe and intact. Nick had been emphatic about aftercare, about easing James back to terra firma, but what about Cal? Shouldn’t he have had the same right to walk away at the end of the night without feeling like this? Like he’d been the one to surrender, bare himself, make himself vulnerable, only to be shut out and sent away, as unneeded and unwanted as the used-up condom?
Cal forced back the ache in his throat. He needed a drink. A distraction. Damn it, he needed James to welcome him into that big bed and hold him, but that wasn’t going to happen, so he didn’t even let himself fantasise about it. He paused in the hallway only long enough to step awkwardly into his shoes before he hurried downstairs and got the hell out of the main house. He still felt odd, concerned about the whole aftercare thing, but James was in bed, had water, and would likely just fall asleep. Cal had done everything Nick had taught him to do, and any attempt to do more would just be met with more rejection.
James would be fine. He wasn’t going on any late-night excursions, either. No f*cking Market Garden.
And tomorrow was Cal’s day off, which meant he could have a drink to settle his queasy stomach.
Back in his cottage, he poured himself three fingers of whiskey and started the computer. There was no way in hell he could find words tonight, but he could leave the file open and the monitor on to guilt-trip himself about it. It would be a distraction, anyway. He hoped.
Tumbler in hand, he opened his email. His critique group had started the discussion of his literary novel-in-progress. With a sinking feeling, he quickly went through the emails, which ranged from “sorry, no time, real life is crazy” to the self-styled super-talent telling him “I’d keep that day job a while longer. This is pretentious shit.”
Bitch. Just because she’d published a couple short stories somewhere.
Normally, he’d have been okay to engage that woman, telling her that literary fiction didn’t necessarily follow the same rules as whatever writing workshop or cheap how-to book was sitting in her craw at the moment. But he didn’t. He simply didn’t have the energy to defend himself or his chapter.
He took a sip of whiskey. So strange; less than an hour ago, he’d been flying high, James had been in the stratosphere, and now everything had turned to shit.
What if James wanted a repeat?
He took another mouthful, warmth spreading in his throat and chest but somehow never quite reaching any of the places that had begun to feel cold and inert.
Ten years ago, he’d have written a poem in this state. He’d killed plenty of wine and pages and written hundreds of dreadful poems. The day they’d accepted him in the Birkbeck course, he’d sworn to himself to make an honest, serious go of it and had torn the lot up and thrown it out. New start and all that. He wouldn’t regress into writing more of that crap.
So what if James wanted more?
More sex, more humiliation, his inner voice clarified. Not that other thing, Cal, don’t be stupid.
Yeah, what then? Could he keep James out of Market Garden and his own damned heart out of it? He could be . . . a driver with benefits. Four-wheeled sex god and nothing more. He chuckled, but the sound hurt. The thought hurt like a son of a bitch, and somehow, he was close to tears and had no idea when that had happened.
He pressed the whiskey glass against his forehead and just focused on that cool contact. Concentrated on it like he could turn it into a focal point for all the bullshit running through his brain.